with Cara Lopez Lee, author of They Only Eat Their Husbands, a memoir of adventure in Alaska & around the world
March 31, 2008
Bok Sa, Toishan, Guangdong Province, China
Another misty, rainy day and night in Toishan. I haven’t really seen the sun since I walked out of the airport in Hong Kong seven days ago. I do recall one five-minute reprieve when the clouds parted just long enough yesterday, or perhaps the day before, to remind me that the sun does still exist here in China.
March 31, 2008
Bok Sa, Toishan, Guangdong Province, China
Yesterday, we paid our promised visit to Old Mr. Ma Wen Hui. When we arrived, his granddaughter Ma Jin Feng and her mother Kuang Cui Lan flung open their doors and eagerly shepherded us inside.
March 30, 2008
Bok Sa, Toishan
Yesterday I took a laxative in the wee morning hours, but it didn’t kick in until afternoon, and even now I still feel full of crap. All the doughy dim sum in the mornings, and white rice and rice-based foods all day long aren’t helping. I’d pay a lot of money just for a bowl of oatmeal.
March 29, 2008
Bok Sa Town, Toishan, China
Yesterday, I hoped to find my great-grandfather’s village. I had thought he was from the village of Gong Hao. But it turns out that Gong Hao isn’t a village; rather, it’s a small district of many villages. Our hotel’s owner, Mr. Wong, knew of one village where a 99-year-old man still lives, and he suggested we go there, in the remote hope that the man might have known my great-grandfather. It seemed unlikely, as Ma Bing Sum left in 1908, a year before the old man was born. Still, I was eager to meet someone who could tell me about the ancient traditions of the region. So we called ahead, and Old Mr. Ma was expecting us.
March 28, 2008
Overseas Chinese Hotel
Bok Sa Town, Toishan County, Guangdong Province, China
In the town of Bok Sa, I’m not merely one of the few foreigners: I’m the only non-Chinese foreigner. As such, I’ve become an instant celebrity. Last night, our plump, smiling, short-haired, crooked-toothed waitress explained that many Overseas Chinese come here from America, but they all speak Chinese and they all look Chinese. That’s why the people in this town keep staring at me, not quite as often as people stared the last time I came to China, but just as boldly and just as unsmilingly. I keep trying the advice I saw in a blog post; another traveler in China said a big smile would draw one in return. So, instead of looking away, or staring back with the same stony eyes, I smile. Nothing. They just keep staring.
March 26, 2008
Hong Kong
I wanted a “hearty” breakfast. Fiona Zhu wasn’t familiar with that word, so I said, “I want to eat a meal that will make me feel full and make me strong… so I can walk all day.” She still seemed at a loss, possible because I also said I wanted to eat what locals eat. Finally, I mentioned jook, a rice porridge usually served with bits of meat and vegetables. I’d never eaten it before, but it was something my Uncle Roy had told me he remembered eating when he lived in China. Jook was something Fiona understood.
March 26, 2008
Mong Kok, Kowloon, Hong Kong
Yesterday morning, Fiona Zhu and I ate breakfast at a noodle shop. I ordered rice noodles with pork in soup. I expected little bits of pork, and was disconcerted to see an entire chop in my bowl. It was tasty, although I could see why some people think Cantonese food bland compared to Szechuan, or other spicier regional cuisine. Our waitress also brought us a pile of steamed Chinese greens. The bitterness was a sweet reminder of childhood, when Chinese food with Gramma and Grampa at a small Cantonese restaurant in East LA was an almost weekly part of our lives.
March 25, 2008
Anne Black Guest House/YWCA
Kowloon, Hong Kong
I have no idea what time it is, only that it’s still a dark time of morning, and few cars are passing on the usually busy streets of Kowloon, eleven stories below. I feel a fragile safety in my tiny cocoon of a room, about 10-by-8 feet, with a shared bathroom across the hall. It’s much like a college dorm room: clean, tiny, sterile, with two small twin beds and a sink, behind an anonymous door at the beginning of a brief row of anonymous doors.
I know many of you are waiting to read about my trip to China last week. However, that story will make better sense if I first tell you about my earlier trip, two years ago. China is the most surreal junction of cultures I’ve encountered. So, please allow me a rare indulgence, in hopes you’ll find it a treat: I’m going to retype my journals here with minimal editing, in a series called Tracing China’s Past. In each of these posts, I’ll share with you one of my days in China. Each of those days was an adventure unto itself. So, check in as often as you’d like and dip into a refreshing splash of culture shock. My first trip lasted three weeks. It started, as most overseas journeys do: on a plane….
